


Gingerbread

by MonkeyBard



Series: Holiday Handful - Five Fics for the Festive Season [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Ghosts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-24
Updated: 2013-04-24
Packaged: 2017-12-09 10:32:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/773184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonkeyBard/pseuds/MonkeyBard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A prompt fic for the holiday season.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gingerbread

**Author's Note:**

> Original post: 18 Dec 2011  
> Prompt from methylviolet10b: Amanuensis, **gingerbread** , foible, turgid, solecistic. Use as many or as few of those as inspires you, in one fic or many. Double giggle points if you work in the original phrase behind the meaning of amanuensis, "slave at hand."

John hadn't expected to find himself back at the Holmes family estate so soon, and certainly not for the holidays. But he hadn't hesitated for a moment when Sherlock informed him that "Mummy particularly requested you join us." Considering John's other options -- staying alone in Baker Street as even Mrs. Hudson would be gone, visiting a friend in Cardiff for Christmas; or "celebrating" with his sister Harry by listening to her lament her failed marriage while drinking herself into a stupor on toxically strong eggnog -- the choice had been an easy one. Besides, he'd held a secret curiosity ever since the second time he'd met Mycroft, and the elder Holmes brother had mentioned family holiday gatherings. He still couldn't quite imagine what they were like.

They were coming along the country road that bordered the Holmes Estate when John spotted something through the hedgerows.

"Sherlock, what is that? It looks like a huge, white tent behind the house."

"Since you know the answer already, why do you ask?" Sherlock replied.

"Yes but _why_ is it there?" John lost sight of it as the driver turned the car off the main road and onto the long driveway that led to the house.

"For the Solstice Ball," answered Sherlock. "Mummy hosts it every year. I'm surprised the tent is still up. It ought to have come down by now."

"Solstice was only yesterday. It was on the twenty-second this year," John pointed out, feeling irrationally defensive on behalf of the poor sods who were stuck removing the structure in this cold. It hadn't snowed yet, but the air was damp and the wind sharp. His aching shoulder told him as much as the weather reports did; snow was imminent. Which brought him to his next question. "But a _tent_? It's awfully cold outside for a ball."

"She couldn't hold it inside. The tree would melt."

"The tree-- Sorry. What?" John stared at him in bafflement.

"The ice sculpture Christmas tree. Do try to keep up, John."

John wanted to protest that there was no logical reason he should automatically assume there was an ice tree at a solstice ball, but he kept his mouth shut. Arguing logic with Sherlock was a guaranteed waste of time. Sherlock always won.

The driver brought the car to a stop and, as had happened on John's first visit, a man jogged down the front steps to meet it, this time with a wool mackintosh buttoned up over his well-tailored suit. John's memory supplied the man's name: Snetter.

Damp and cold bit into John as he stepped from the car, and he pulled his muffler up around his ears for the quick walk up the front steps to the door. This time, instead of being welcomed by carved pumpkins on the stairs, they were met by a collection of small gingerbread houses inside the foyer.

"Your mother's been entertaining the local school children again, I take it," commented John. He pulled off his gloves, being extra careful of his damaged wrist. It was getting better, but it still hurt when he jarred it.

"Excellent, if obvious, deduction."

The pair doffed their coats and accessories and handed the lot over to the waiting butler.

"Your rooms are made up for you, sir," said Snetter, taking the heavy load with professional indifference.

"Thank you, Snetter. Is Mummy in?"

"She is not. But she is expected shortly."

"Very good. And Mycroft?"

"Not due until tomorrow afternoon at the earliest, sir."

"Excellent." Sherlock turned from the man, dismissing him by simply ceasing to continue acknowledging his presence. "Tea?" When he got no answer, he tried again. "John. Tea?"

"Hm?" John looked up from the gingerbread house he was examining. It had caught his eye amongst the others for its unusual ornamentation. One side was riddled with silver dragées like a line of bullets, and someone had created a vehicle out of a large broccoli floret and four round peppermint candies. Red liquorice licked like flames from the windows, while black liquorice curled like smoke from the chimney. Half the roof had caved in -- or been deliberately caved in, he couldn't be certain which it was -- and what he guessed was a fallen candy-and-icing satellite had been placed strategically in the gaping hole. "What's--" He tipped his head to the dubious gingerbread art. "What's this about?"

Sherlock glanced at it and shrugged. "There's always one like that. Every year, some child gets the notion to do a bit of creative desecration. Never the same child twice, or so Mummy claims. It's been going on for a long as I can recall, so I suppose she must be right."

"That's…odd." Out of the corner of his ear, John caught the sound of a soft, childish giggle, and it occurred to him that perhaps it wasn't so odd after all. In fact, he felt a sudden certainty that a young ghost named Sherrinford Holmes had a hand in it. The corner of his mouth curled up in a sympathetic smile. It couldn't be easy keeping oneself entertained in the afterlife, and this seemed a harmless way to go about it. He allowed the smile to grow and turned it on Sherlock. "Tea sounds lovely."

This year definitely promised to be an entertaining Christmas.


End file.
